She is in the moment, when the clock strikes three.
She is in the nighttime, when there's only loneliness and me.
She is in the shadows, of the day long stress I find.
She is in the emptiness, in the splinters of my mind.
She is in the circle, of where it all began.
She is in the landscape, walking hand in hand.
She is in the weekends, in a past life full of joy.
She is in the morrow, more authentic and less coy.
She is in the fragrance, of a scent flirting with my nose.
She is in the flowers, of honeysuckle and of rose.
She is in the deerskin, a treasure to the touch.
She is in the cards and gifts, that promised all too much.
She is in the memory, of fun times often shared.
She is in the heartbeat, of lovers who once cared.
She is in the albums, of snap shots time's forgot.
She is in the flame, that tries to burn the flipping lot.
She is in the beach, where I go and sit and think.
She is in the shoreline, as the sun turns clouds to pink.
She is in the driftwood, washed up on the coming tide.
She is in the reality, of a light that’s gone and died.
She is in the body, of someone I don’t know.
She is in the doorway, not sure to stay or go.
She is in the onward, our destiny entwined as one.
She is in the reason, for the journey still to come.
She is in the necklace, of a new recruit.
She is in the wood, in twig and branch and root.
She is in the breeze, that caresses all the trees.
She is in the spirit, that comes to set me free.
She is in the counsel, of many a true friend.
She is in the healing, of a human on the mend.
She is in the woman, who I have not yet met.
She is in the future, to settle an old debt.
By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021
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We cling, to the branch of our birth.
To the only twig, we will ever be known.
Through storm, or gale, or merest wisp.
Whatever essence of air, has ever been blown.
We're stuck, steadfast and rooted.
Glued tight, to our parental limb.
Eternally joined, by umbilical chord.
Or simply attached, at nature's whim.
Through every battle, that's ever been encountered.
Every war, that has ever been fought.
To whatever beauty, our eye has been captured.
Creatively imagined, or conceivably thought.
We've grown, through the budding of spring lime.
And matured, through deep hearted, midsummer green.
We've faded, in the waning of the autumn red.
Being stripped bare in winter, never again to be seen.
But here lies the glory, not only in the living.
But in the dying and the deadness too.
Where in one final, gusted breath of existence.
Stalk is clipped from stem, in two.
So then, upon the breeze released.
Cartwheels are spun, on currents of time.
As we join, with all others deceased.
In one spiralling dance, of drift and mime.
To where one's final resting place will be.
Where tethered boat, does ebb and does flow.
Taking the rough with the smooth, in the estuary.
Where seagull, pochard and cormorant go.
To the clean slate, is where we must eventually fall.
Wind gathering us, by the heap and the pile.
Adding compost to the new, with the souls of the old.
Until the next acorn does drop, resetting the dial.
By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2018
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